


It Was Enough

by jazzypizzaz



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Canon - Tie-in Novel, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, coda for Fallen Heroes, the character deaths didn't actually happen... time travel ya know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 20:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12489988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzypizzaz/pseuds/jazzypizzaz
Summary: It’s been one week since Quark stumbled into Ops with an urgent warning about a ruthless alien attack, shirtless and holding a jar of molten Odo.  It’s been one week since the worst experience of his life never even happened.It’s been one week, and everything’s back to normal.(Except it's not, not for him.)





	It Was Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This is a coda in which Quark deals with his emotional fallout after the tie-in novel [Fallen Heroes](www.memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Fallen_Heroes). It fucked me up that Quark couldn't tell anyone what he went through, he just had to live and move on with all his unresolved guilt, etc.
> 
> There should be enough context within the fic for anyone to enjoy it without any familiarity with the book, although I will say that it is probably my favorite of the seventeen DS9 novels I've read, so highly recommend.

It’s been one week since Quark stumbled into Ops with an urgent warning about a ruthless alien attack, shirtless and holding a jar of molten Odo.  It’s been one week since the worst experience of his life (though losing tongo to Rom one distracted evening several days ago boasts a close second) never even happened.

 

It’s been one week, and everything’s back to normal.  

 

It’s normal now, because it never was anything _but_ normal for anyone else, Quark reminds himself.

 

All the same assortment of living, breathing crewmembers file into his bar to relax between station work shifts.  All the same off-worlders stop by, hearts pumping with opportunity, in between cargo shipments.  The usual type of star-struck Bajorans wander in, rapturous with wonder and thankful that fate allowed them to reach this moment.

 

They drink synthale, chow down on hasperat, and gamble away their cares.  Lining Quark’s pockets with their latinum in the process -- or at least for the brief time before he has to part with it to pay off suppliers and debtors and wages.  Customers enter tense and -- thanks to the energetic atmosphere and good hospitality of Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade -- they leave refreshed.  They leave satiated.  

 

Happy.  

 

(And Quark slightly richer.)

 

Everyone continues on their lives, without any idea of what happened a week ago.  The entire station is back to normal again, back to the way it should be.

 

And thus, so is Quark.

 

(Except he’s not.)

 

Contemplating this, Quark scans the bar, also unconsciously cataloguing future opportunities among the crowd (the talent of a true businessman):

 

Two vedeks slump over raktajinos in a nearby booth, adjusting to the time change from southern Bajor.  They’ll need refills soon, Quark notes, and and according to their gurgling stomachs, probably food as well.  A healthy sized group of Starfleet lieutenants from the engineering department fill up barstools at the end of the counter -- after a discount round of Black Holes, they should be pushed towards gambling tables.  A crew of Orion traders squander their recent profits at the dabo tables -- Quark makes a mental note to ask them about a discreet source for Risian glow eels -- and behind them is Jake, chatting with a few burly Nausicaans over at the dom jot table.  

 

Quark feels his hackles rising and lets out a small hiss under his breath.

 

_Jake, young and ashen-faced, holding small Molly’s toddler hand, as his eyes stare vacantly at nothing.  Jake, a child becoming old before his time..._

 

After Captain Sisko died to save the station, to leave a message and save his son, this is how Jake repays him?  By either losing his latinum betting against those formidable opponents if he loses, or risking the ire of their temperamental nature if he wins?  Quark didn’t wade through hallways of dead bodies and more importantly ruin his best shirt, just to have to waste time teaching an orphan proper gambling skills --

 

Oh right.

 

For Jake, that never happened.

 

Quark takes a deep breath, to quiet his racing heart.  He shakes his head to rid himself of this swirling fog of depressing thoughts.  After all, Rule #91, “a smile sells better than frown.”  Best not to dwell on it.

 

Everything’s not _back_ to normal.  It _is_ normal.

 

Quark never messed with a dangerous alien artifact that doomed everyone on the station to certain destruction, and he never got dragged along into a horrifying investigation with _Odo_ of all people, and he never stumbled across the corpses of his customers that were _all his fault_ , and he never --

 

It doesn’t matter what never happened.  Might as well be a nightmare.  No use crying for Moogie over nothing.

 

Quark focuses back to the task at hand, as a group of gabby Bajoran women approach the counter.

 

Three black holes, an order of hasperat, and four holosuite reservations.  A smile, a listening ear, a promise of escape.

 

Life goes on.

 

\---

 

The next morning, Kira comes in for her early raktajino, blinking at a staffing report as she sips from her steaming mug.

 

_Blood splattered in the hallway.  Bekkir bodies fried in their twisted armor, scattered at Quark’s feet.  The only remnants of the Major’s last stand -- gruesome, courageous, and ultimately fatal._

 

But Kira’s only immediate concerns, now, are the complaints about staff scheduling from the night crew.  Quark shakes away his thoughts and does his best to sell her on a new holosuite program, _A Prophecy of Desire_.  He receives nothing better than a nasty twist of the lobes for his trouble, but he wouldn’t be him if he didn’t try.  

 

Who knows, maybe one day she’ll loosen up, enjoy the pleasures in life instead of the sacrifices.

 

Jadzia stops by to sneak in a lunchtime round of dabo, bright-eyed and laughing as the wheel spins.

 

_A limp lovely body slumped against a bulkhead.  Two bullet holes marring her perfect face.  Her smile -- enigmatic and elegant even in death.  But none of her many virtues or talents could save her own life._

 

Quark squints for a moment then plasters on his most unctuous grin, rubbing his lobe as he flirts and flatters her.  She brushes him off as always, smirking with delight, this roundabout game they play where Quark always loses.  

 

Every time he manages to make her smile, it eases the heavy ache in his chest he gets when he thinks of her.

 

Miles and Julian play darts.  Sisko and Jake play baseball in the holosuite.  Rom whines and drags his feet as Quark orders him around.  One by one, a parade of familiar faces go about their daily business.  With each one Quark pours them their drinks and performs the role of hospitable bartender, as he tries not to think about where their bodies might now be lying vacant if he hadn’t either doomed or saved them the previous week.

 

With his trademark pointy smile lodged on his face, Quark wheels and deals, scheming and flirting and upselling, as usual.  An enterprising businessman.  A pillar of the community.  A friend to all, for a reasonable price.  

 

Or so he tells himself as he stares into those living faces, pretending that when he goes to bed at night he doesn’t stare wide awake at the ceiling, guilt and horror chewing away at his insides like a gnawing empty storm.

 

\---

 

The wormhole attracts a wide variety of visitors, both old and new, all passing through for different reasons. Quark, as every good businessman, has an excellent memory of prior customers, and these days finds himself gravitating towards those he knows haven’t visited Deep Space Nine before.

 

Those that were definitely not on the station for the events of that alternate future.

 

This evening, a tiny Bajoran kid named Rinko, not bigger than Nog standing across from him, is swinging his legs on a barstool as he rambles excitedly.  Despite Quark’s best efforts, the kid is remarkably savvy about his spending money, content to sip at the same lipso juice while babbling about his big bright future.

 

“Wowee!” Rinko says to Nog, who diligently scrubs at the sticky counter.  “Did you see the phasers on those security officers?  Have you ever seen anything so neat looking?”

 

Nog raises an eye ridge.  “Yeah, only every day.  I live here you know.”

 

“That’s so awesome!” the kid exclaims, stars in his eyes.  “When I grow up, I want to be a Starfleet security officer.  Pew pew!”  He mimicks shooting a phaser.

 

Nog grins, then Quark scowls at him, so he averts his eyes back to his cleaning,

 

“Security officer, pshaw!  Terrible people,” Quark says, though come to think of it Odo hasn’t harassed him at all lately.  He’s not even sure the last time he’s seen him today.  “And Starfleet is full of reckless idiots.  Always riling up trouble, with their _ideals_.”  

 

“Bajor isn’t part of the Federation, anyway.  Like Ferenginar,” Nog says, with a low note of bitterness in his voice only another Ferengi could pick up on.  Quark’s scowl deepens.  “But you’re Bajoran, you could join the Militia.”

 

“No, I just have to get a sponsor.  A Bajoran on night crew told me -- she’s applying to the academy next month!”  Rinko leans in, and Nog looks far too interested in what the kid’s going to say next for Quark’s comfort.  He even stops scrubbing.  “I bet even a Ferengi could join if they wanted.  We could both apply, then I would already have a pal!”

 

“You want a real future, go into business.  I hear there’s good money in flea-beetle shipping these days.” Quark hastily swings an arm over Nog’s shoulders, squeezing him.  “Or bartending!  Isn’t that right, Nog?”

 

“Yes, uncle.”  Nog stares at him sullenly for a moment, then wiggles out from his arms to attend to his cleaning.  The boy has a good work ethic, but Quark ought to work on his attitude.

 

_The monotone distant voice Jake used as he told Quark of Nog’s heroics reverberates through Quark’s lobes.  Nog, facing down the enemy so that others may live instead.  The complete calm he must have felt with this decision, as a Ferengi with the knowledge that he holds all the cards he wants to play.  Nog, who would let humans live through his very un-Ferengi bravery._

 

That gnawing sensation rises up in Quark, a slight panic setting in.

 

“Starfleet, they all think they’re heroes, that it’s somehow good sense to risk their own lives for a bunch of snivelling ingrates.  They don’t even ask for a fee in return!  It’s -- it’s -- immoral!  Senseless!”

 

By this point, Quark’s voice is almost shrieking, as its volume rises despite himself.  His heart is almost racing now, and he can’t quite shake himself out of the _yep-draps_ (a Ferengi hysteria that traditionally sets in when cowardice fails to result in self-preservation).

 

“ _Excuse_ me,” a grey-haired Bajoran woman appears over Rinko’s shoulder and says in an overly familiar placating tone, reminiscent of Kai Winn.  

 

Her eyes are bright brown like the bark of a Vulcan hesha tree (very profitable sold as a narcotic but also heavily restricted), and the edges of her lips pinched downwards as if molded that way. She’s relatively generic, as far as middle-aged Bajoran women go, yet Quark can’t shake how familiar the particular curve of her mouth is.  He’s also sure he’s never seen those eyes before.

 

“Do I know you?” He pauses his rant for a moment, squinting at her.  “I swear I know you from somewhere.  You modelled for the holoprogram _Steamy Bajoran Nights_ , was that it?  A touched up holo-capture from your youth maybe?”

 

“I should think not!  I only arrived on the station last week, certainly never visited a holodeck.”  She frowns.  “Excuse me, _sir_ , is there a reason you were yelling at my son?”

 

The way her lip twists, the way a few deep wrinkles set in near her eyes on her otherwise Bajoran-smooth face… Her frown deepens, then with a dropping pit of dread in his stomach, Quark realizes where he’s seen her before.

 

_Draped across the Promenade bannister, a small figure underneath her she must have been protecting.  Stiff with rigor mortis.  A slash across her forehead and caked blood around her eyes.  A frightened scowl, aimed towards a long gone enemy, frozen on her face._

 

Quark takes a large step back without thinking.  He crashes into the shelf behind him.  Several bottles fall to smash on the ground, but the shattering is distant, like a memory of sound rather than something that’s happening now.  Quark jerks and twists to look at the people looming around him.  Like a faulty holoprogram, his surroundings flash between images, from present setting to nonexistent past.  Blood and corpses are superimposed on healthy confused faces, like a heavy film.  

 

He’s trapped in a dream and everything turned out okay after all, but any moment now he could wake up.  He’s trapped in nightmare and still stuck on the ghostly station, no escape and no happy ending.

 

“ _Why_ were you yelling at _my son_?”  The woman says, an impatient edge in her voice.

 

“He was --” Quark stutters, still disoriented.  “He’s going to die.  He’ll be murdered.”

 

“ _Excuse_ me?  And who would do that?!”  Perturbed, she yells out behind her: “Security!”

 

“He’s -- not today maybe, but if he -- if he follows through on those big dreams and joins in with the hew-mons?  He’s going to die.”

 

“Uncle -- Uncle Quark?” Nog asks, but Quark barely hears him.  “Are you okay?”

 

“All I ever wanted is to sell food and drinks, make an honest living, but then you know what happens?”  Quark lunges forward to grab Nog’s shoulders, to make him understand, then turns back to the woman.  “Starfleet comes, and I make one little, tiny mistake, but I’m not like you people!  You _people_ with your high and mighty _morals --_ ”

 

The woman grabs Rinko and takes a step back, vague look of horror on her face.  “Security!”

 

Quark continues yelling, mostly having lost his train of thought, but now that he’s started he can’t stop.  “Ferengi aren’t like these other people, hew-mons and Bajorans and -- and Trill… all of them -- they would all die, but not me, not me, even when -- it’s all my fault --”

 

His gasping indictments are cut short, as a firm hand clenches around his arm and yanks him away.

 

“Quaaark!”  His interrupter growls.  It’s Odo, dragging Quark towards somewhere private, away from his audience, the witnesses to his guilt.

 

“Odo!” Quark growls back.  Of all people Odo has a particular knack for showing up when it’s inconvenient.  “Odo, let go.  Someone should tell them.  They should know they should know that -- that I did it, it was my fault -- they don’t even know --”

 

Odo closes the storeroom door behind them, then lunges, forcing Quark into a corner and looming over him.  “Quark!  You’re making a scene, Quark.  Disruption of peace and order,” he admonishes.

 

Odo’s fingers dig into Quark’s forearm, still gripping him, and the claustrophobia of the situation threatens to burst through Quark.

 

Thrumming with emotion, he yells: “We solved the mystery and that’s all you care about isn’t it?  Case closed, that’s all that matters.”

 

Odo’s scowl softens for a moment.  He tilts his head.

 

Quark continues: “Not all of us are cold unfeeling constables!  There’s something not right with you.”

 

Odo’s grip loosens, and he stares with such naked surprise that Quark has the strange desire to slap him.

 

“You don’t -- you don’t even care do you!  Everyone died, and you don’t even care!”

 

“I do care.  They’re alive.”  Odo’s face is blank except for a thin furrow over his forehead.  How can he be so calm?  Why doesn’t he understand?  “Everything’s back to normal now.  We did it.”

 

_Odo, molten into a thin boiling liquid.  Odo, perhaps forever melted in his last attempt to save the station.  Odo the knight, the protector who Quark could always count on to ensure justice and safety, Odo was a helpless puddle in a bucket._

 

_And he left Quark all alone, the heroes fallen one by one leaving only Quark to finish the task.  Completely alone and feeling decidedly unheroic._

 

Everything’s not normal.

 

Quark, in an uncharacteristic move, pushes Odo with full force, hoping for a satisfying crash into the shelf behind him.  Odo, with his ever stolid frame, doesn’t even budge at the force.  Quark tries again and again, punching at Odo’s sides with manicured fists unaccustomed to violence or physical effort of any kind.

 

“I don’t-- even -- like them -- but they -- _died_ \--” Quark yells in between pathetic punches.  He’s wheezing now, almost hyperventilating with hysteria.  

 

Odo finally wraps his arms around Quark, restraining him.  “I lived.  You lived, unfortunately.  What we did, it was enough.  Calm _down_.”

 

“Stupid _hew-mons_ \-- with their bravery -- shouldn’t -- they shouldn’t have -- come here -- in the first -- place.”  Quark gasps into Odo’s shoulder, as he thrashes against him, to no effect.  

 

Odo’s arms are steady, strong, unyielding.

 

“But then who would you sell your cases of root beer, at an 800% markup?”

 

A sarcastic snort escapes from Quark, surprising himself.  

 

The remark is so _Odo --_  ignorant of common business logistics, and thus so heartbreakingly _normal_ of him despite it all -- that everything storming within Quark releases all at once.  As Quark sobs great hiccuping sobs, Odo stiffens against him, at first unsure.  Then after a moment he softens, awkwardly rubbing Quark’s back.

 

“Jadzia -- and Kira -- Rom, _Nog_ \--”

 

“They’re alive, Quark.  They lived.”

 

Quark clutches at Odo, at this grumpy unshakeable man who walked through fire and came out the other side -- he leans in instead of trying to escape.

 

“ _You_ lived,” Odo says, with a sharp waver indicating he might not be disappointed in that result.  That he might have, at some point, feared this _wouldn't_ be the case.  “And I lived, Quark.  I’m not even sure if I can die.  I’ll always be here, ready to uphold order on the station.”

 

“Is that a threat?” Quark asks, muffled into Odo’s shoulder, and by threat he means _promise_.  “I don’t like to see patterns upended, you know.”

 

Odo harrumphs.

 

They continue to hold each other for a few moments longer.

 

Everything’s not normal, but maybe, just maybe, if they have each other that will be enough.


End file.
